


How to Be Rich

by CassieIngaben



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22267837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieIngaben/pseuds/CassieIngaben
Summary: High achievers need outstanding role models.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9
Collections: From Eroica With Love - Groups Challenges





	How to Be Rich

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anne-Li (Anneli)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anneli/gifts), [TelWoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/gifts).



Bonham stopped trying to be amiable and stared down James’s malevolent glare from across the desk: “I cannot ask people to work for us and then only pay them when you want to.”

“Why should we pay them when they’re not doing anything?”

“Because it’s less dangerous to have people on a permanent basis than to contract them.”

James’s expression turned outright unpleasant. “The more they hang around, the more time they have to spy.”

“As opposed to hanging around and then going back on the market to the highest bidder, which might include someone who _actually_ wants to spy on us. It’s inconvenient and less safe. It’s like sleeping around as opposed to going steady.”

James looked down at the documents on the desk, blinked a few times, and did not reply.

 _Oops. Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say right after the Boss came back from London being a bit too obvious about sleeping around. He’s careless when he’s just ‘liberated’ something he wants to keep for himself. Which of course also means we_ are _essentially paying people for nothing, which explains why James’s so livid about it. It’s hitting him in two different ways at once._

Bonham leaned on the desk. “Look. Let’s be professional about it. I deal with the hiring and managing people, and you deal with the budget. I don’t tell you how to do your job, and you don’t tell me how to do mine. I’ll stay within your expense limits, and all the rest—I know that most of what you require does make sense.”

James looked up from his contemplation of the desk. “You know that what I’m asking is not unreasonable.”

Bonham looked back at him. _Depends on what you ask, and who you ask, mate._

Before the silence could get too heavy, Bonham spoke. “Well, then. Let’s start this meeting again, from the top. The right way this time.” He pointed at the printout on the desk. “This is my staffing plan. It’s detailed and costed.”

James straightened up in his chair and took the printout. “I’ll approve it once I have the full overview of all other resources.”

“There’s only hi-tech equipment left, and that’s almost done. You’ll be pleased to know that I’m vetoing most of Walters’s stupid gadgets.”

James nodded. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Meeting adjourned?”

“Adjourned.”

Bonham stood up in relief. _At last. Done with relative civility. The price to pay for working with the best: they have strong opinions. Even when they’re completely deluded, and nasty with it._

* * *

Having to sign off Bonham’s plan—no matter how impressively put together it had been—had made James so upset he’d needed to take a rare break outside. It didn’t matter that it was still cold; the day was sunny, he had his coat, hat and scarf to protect him, and he was carrying two of the heaviest blankets he could find. One of them was green-blue tartan on one side, and waterproof sheeting on the other, so that whoever sat on it would not get damp no matter how wet the grass was. James walked for a long time, making a few detours until he was satisfied that nobody was following him. This area of the park was his secret place. For himself only. _Dorian has his room. I have my thicket._ He pushed aside the overgrown brambles partially hiding his sanctuary, and slithered into the clearing. It wasn’t a fairy-tale shrine—the grass was sparse and thin, the trees stunted, and the forest floor uneven and studded with stones that made finding a comfortable position a feat. But it was outdoors, and private. When he was outside, bird noises were actually less scary. Bird noises overhead were to be expected, and they helped mask the cawing inside his head. He could tell himself that it was nothing but birds, actual birds, that his head was fine, that he was fine.

He unrolled the double-sided blanket and laid it on the grass, then he set his backpack on it and sat down. He wrapped the other blanket around himself, and wiggled until he was comfortable, barring a few stones, acorns and twigs. He reached for his backpack and pulled out a lunchbox, a thermos and a book. As he set down the book, he noticed that he’d left a red fingerprint on the cover. He looked at his hand, and realised he’d scratched his fingers with the brambles and was still bleeding sluggishly. He sucked his thumb into his mouth to lick it clean, then looked at it. _A forest of trees, brambles and thorns. Briar Rose._

He pursed his lips, picked up his lunchbox, and pulled the lid open. A delicious smell of steamed bananas mashed with sugar and cinnamon made his mouth water. The food was still hot, and it smoked in the cold air. He rustled a spoon from his backpack and tucked greedily into his treat. He’d long given up achieving appropriate table manners, much as he was ashamed at how he ate, at how it sabotaged his constant efforts at cleanliness, propriety and gentility. He just got so hungry when he saw food, it was as if something took over. But here, there was no-one to watch and judge. None of those posh, titled friends and hangers-on of Dorian’s—nor Dorian himself, who thought he could hide his distaste at James’s table manners but actually didn’t. The very first evening they met was engraved in James’s memory: under the lens of Dorian’s unsettling scrutiny, pulled in all directions by desire, fear, embarrassment, hunger, worry, nerves, his hands had trembled so badly he’d been hopelessly unable to cope with the soup. _Maybe, if Dorian hadn’t been put off by my manners, he’d have seen me differently, he’d have been—_

James pushed the thorny memory away, and concentrated on the food’s sweet, spicy taste, closing his eyes in pleasure at each spoonful _. Idiot Cook wanted to throw the bananas away, but I saved them. Saved us money._ Cost. Cost. Cost. Ruin. Ruin. Ruin _. No! It’s not true. Why am I thinking that?_ He put down the empty lunchbox, and swept his hand over his face. _Why am I always thinking that? Where is that coming from?_ He reached for the thermos, and unscrewed it laboriously, hands stiff with cold and fear. He poured himself a cup of hot, milky tea and sipped it, the cup warming his hands, the steam from the tea turning into tiny droplets on his eyelashes. He blinked, and the droplets flew away, back into the cup. _Water to water. Ashes to ashes. Ruin to ruin._ He drank up, and pushed aside cup, thermos and lunchbox all. _I’m not listening. I’m not listening to the whispers, the noises and the birds. I’m doing better today. I’m having a good day. We’re not ruined._ He picked up his book, wiggled sideways, and opened J. Paul Getty’s _How to Be Rich_ on page 143. _11x13. 10010001._

The sunlight filtered through the few remaining leaves, and dappled the book’s pages. _Like a rain of gold dust and coins._ He began to read, mouthing the words silently, slowly. _They’d all made fun of me when I was a child because I read so slowly, and I mouth the words. They thought I was stupid. They said I spoke nonsense when they found me. I had to learn all the words. I never liked words. They are not precise—they never mean what they should mean; they’re always wrong, never enough, always too much, never quite right. They are made to deceive, to lie, to confuse. To ruin everything. Even the way they are written—why don’t the letters match the sounds?_ That _is stupid. Numbers, on the other hand. Numbers don’t lie. Numbers mean what they mean. Figures are written the same in every language—except languages like Chinese, which is a pity, because the Chinese were already excellent mathematicians when the English still painted themselves blue and threw stones at each other. Most of humanity is a waste of space. Waste, waste, waste. Ruin, ruin, ruin._

He gritted his teeth and forced his attention back to the book; he dug a tiny pencil stub from his front pocket and from time to time he underlined a few sentences. He liked to imagine that Getty, if they’d met, would understand him. Getty had read economics in Oxford and lived in a manor house in Surrey; he understood frugality, and bargaining, and hard work; rising early, working late, being thorough. _They all say he was a miserable, mean-spirited bastard. They know nothing. I hate them all._ James got to the end of the chapter, closed his book, and burrowed in his blanket, feeling the sun on his face. The noises and the cawing had stopped. He felt warm, sated, at peace. Safe. He fantasised, as he often had, that Getty was his father, and that he’d come back to get him and made him Tristram James Getty; given him his Surrey manor, his own very castle; made him a partner in his business, an extremely rich man—so rich he couldn’t count all his money _._ Sent him to Oxford, where he would have met Dorian as a peer, impressed him with his own castle and his money and his skills. _He never took me to Oxford._ Tristram James Getty would have used his money to effortlessly save the Gloria Estate, so that Dorian would never have been in danger, and he in fear. He’d have made Dorian fall in love with him, even. _He’d tell me, late at night, in our bed. He’d whisper it, so very softly. He’d hold me, and say he wanted me to be happy. He’d drive away for good all the hissing and cawing, the lights and the shapes and the noises, and I’d be happy. Really happy, like happy people are._

**Author's Note:**

> My heartfelt thanks to my lovely editor TelWoman, and to Anne-Li for the new mailing list.
> 
> This vignette was posted for a challenge on the eroicaml on groups.io. The challenge was to write a James-centric story to celebrate his birthday on Jan 9th. If you like From Eroica with Love, you are welcome to join us at https://eroicaml.groups.io. 
> 
> I cheated because I am posting a snippet from a much-longer WIP. It should still make sense separately—but feel free to ask for any clarification in the comments. 
> 
> How to Be Rich is an actual book https://www.amazon.co.uk/How-be-Rich-Paul-Getty/dp/0515087378, and you may want to look up the charming Mr. Getty (this is a link to the correct person; there’s a number of people with very similar names in that family https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J._Paul_Getty)


End file.
